“Do I love Stephen?” If anything, Maryann’s heart beat faster and louder than a moment ago.
She shook her head in vehement denial. “Of course not! I’d be the most foolish chit on earth, wouldn’t I, to love a man who only makes me angry?”
“And anger’s the only feelin’ he awakens in ye?” asked Meg, not hiding her disbelief. “Think on it, dearie.”
Maryann did, remembering when Stephen had lifted her off Spitfire. When he had kissed her.
Her face grew warm. She cast a harried look at the stairs—a way of escape from uncomfortable questions. Really! Meg should know better than detain her with absurdities.
Memories, once stirred, would not be stilled. They traveled back further, to that moment of silence after she told Stephen she didn’t believe in knights coming to a lady’s rescue. For the span of a heartbeat, they had looked at each other and she had known that Stephen would act her knight if the need arose. She had felt safe—and cherished.
She remembered her feelings when she saw him the very first time. And she recalled how often he was on her mind.
“Well?” Meg demanded imperiously.
“No,” Maryann admitted reluctantly. “It’s not only anger he stirs in me.”
Meg smiled.
“It’s not love, though,” Maryann assured her earnestly. “I admit I am intrigued by Stephen. I even admit that, at times, I like him prodigiously. I may be in the throes of what everyone calls ‘developing a tendre.’ But it is not the same as falling in love.”
“Bless ye,” Meg said, amused. “I didn’t think anyone could be that naive. Not even a sheltered lady of quality.”
Maryann glowered. There it was again, that hateful word naive. Stephen had applied it to her, as had Tammadge. Now Meg.
“I must go.” Clasping gloves and reticule to her breast, Maryann turned away. “Thank you for the tea and muffin.”
Meg’s rich laughter followed her down the stairs.
“And I say ye’re as much in love with Stephen as he’s with you! Only you’re afraid to admit it.”
Afraid to admit it. Afraid …
Meg’s voice still echoed in her mind when Maryann reached the dim entryway. Picking up her skirts, she ran across the courtyard to the waiting carriage.
“What’s wrong?” Rob’s hand closed over her wrist while he looked her up and down as though he expected to find some dreadful injury. “Knew I should’ve gone in with ye. A tavern like that ain’t no place for a lady.”
She gave a shaky laugh. If she had been assaulted by one of the tavern’s patrons, she could not be more unnerved than she was by Meg’s assumption that she was in love with Stephen.
“Rob, I’m all right. Just in a hurry, as usual. I want to go to Wilderness Road off the Charterhouse Gardens. Do you know the direction?”
“Aye. An’ what might ye be wantin’ there? It’s a fair way out, I warn ye.”
“Number thirty-one, Wilderness Road. That’s where Hannah Moss lives. The girl who escaped Tammadge. Let’s go, Rob. I want to see if I can coax her to speak about that night.”
Still watching her with concern, he handed her into the carriage. Within seconds they were on the way.
Maryann tried to keep her mind on Hannah Moss and what she would say to the girl, but with no one to reprimand her if her thoughts strayed, she was soon mulling over Meg’s words.
They were nonsensical, of course. She was not in love with Stephen Farrell. Surely, she’d be the first to know if she were?
After a moment or two of pondering, Maryann admitted she had no answer to the question. Her meager knowledge of the mysteries of falling in love was gleaned through observation, not experience.
She had watched her sister Elizabeth lose her heart. For Bess it had been love at first sight. She was still in love with her husband, but starry-eyed, glowing happiness had turned into tears and bitterness soon after the wedding.
Bella tumbled in and out of love the way a puppy tumbled in and out the shallow waters of a creek. It was not a prospect to inspire confidence in the lasting power of love.
And Stephen—if it were love that made him warm and tender one moment, autocratic and overbearing the next, then love was an uncomfortable companion, a burden rather than a joy.
Even those glum observations would not, however, stop her from admitting she had fallen in love if that were the case. She feared dark, locked cellars and, perhaps, just a little, Viscount Tammadge. She was not afraid of loving a man.
Deep in thought, Maryann paid scant attention to the streets they traveled or to the screams and shouts that had accompanied her journey for several minutes. But when the progress of the carriage was reduced to jerky stops and starts, once almost tumbling her off the seat, she could no longer turn a deaf ear on the clamor.
Cautiously, she looked out. Her eyes widened at the sight of the tattered crowd surging around the carriage. Most of the men and women paid no heed to the vehicle. Intent on their purposes, they forged noisily ahead toward Holborn, the same way the carriage was going. For the most part, the shouting was indistinguishable, but now and again Maryann caught the cry, “Bread! We wants bread!”
From the corner of her eye, she saw a handful of ragged men dangerously close to the carriage and the spinning wheels. She started to call a warning, but the words stuck in her throat when more men closed in, shaking scrawny fists at her and yelling abuse.
Heart pounding, she sat back from the window. It did not matter that she understood only one word out of ten. Anger and hatred could be conveyed without language.
She heard the crack of Robert’s whip at the same moment as something hard hit the carriage door. A second missile hit the glass pane, cracking it. Trembling, she pressed into the corner of the seat while stones and refuse hailed on the coach.
“My lady!” Above the rattle of the speeding vehicle, Rush’s call through the communications panel was all but lost. “Are ye hurt?”
“No. But let’s get away from here. Fast! Before you or Rob are hit.”
She heard the horses neigh. Rocking violently, the carriage came to a stop, throwing her off balance. Her fumbling hand missed the leather strap affixed to the carriage roof to prevent just such an ignominious topple as she suffered, falling across the seat and knocking her head smartly against the armrest.
But the throbbing in her head did not matter. All she could think of was the gray-faced, angry mob outside. What would they do to her? What would happen to Robert and Rush? Why did the two men not fire their weapons?
Cautiously, she sat up. She was about to adjust her hat, whose brim had, somehow, come to rest on the tip of her nose, when a pistol shot rang out—too far distant to have been fired by Robert. A hush fell over the street, and Maryann sat motionless.
One man’s voice, startlingly familiar and yet alien with its broad accent, rang out loud and clear.
“Guards! T’ Guards, they be comin’ down Holborn!”
An instant of silence reigned, then the shout of “Guards!” was taken up by dozens of voices, male and female. Shod feet stamping, bare feet slapping on the cobbles told Maryann that the crowd was dispersing in all haste.
She had time only to shove her hat back before the door opened.
As always, Stephen was hatless. His hair stood on end as though he had repeatedly run his fingers through it. His face under the Peninsular tan was pale, the dark eyes raking her with painful intensity.
“Maryann!” Stephen’s voice was hoarse with concern. He swung himself into the carriage and gathered her in his arms.
Safe and cherished.
She hid her face against the broad chest so invitingly close. If her heart had pounded with apprehension before, it now hammered because Stephen’s appearance had set her spirit soaring.
She was grateful he sent the crowd running; that was understood. But more than that, when he flung the carriage door open, she had realized that there stood the man of her secret dreams. He was with her and nothing else mattered.
Not even the question as to whether or not she was falling in love….
For now, at least, it did not matter.
Slowly, she pulled out of his embrace. She wanted to see him, make certain he was flesh and blood, not the shadowy figure that had haunted her dreams.
He saw the look in her eyes, a dawning awareness, and every intention of not pressing further demonstrations of love on her went the way his former resolves not to see her again had gone.
“My little madcap. My love!”
Her face was close, her lips parted invitingly. He did not try to resist the temptation, but covered that soft mouth with his. When she made no demur, he drew her closer, enfolding her once again in his arms.
Despite her small stature, she fitted against him perfectly, as the tiny dwellings of the Pyrenees fitted against the side of the mountains—snug and secure, meant to weather a lifetime.
But he mustn’t think of a lifetime with Maryann. He must be content with today and tomorrow. And today Maryann returned his kiss with an ardor that set his pulse racing and his blood coursing hotly.
Stephen gave himself up to the fire and the innocence of her kiss, to the warmth and softness of her slender body. Nothing, not thoughts of a questionable tomorrow or knowledge of a bleak future, must spoil this moment.
But something, someone, did. All of a sudden, Stephen knew they were no longer alone. Someone was watching. Silence hung over the street, but his neck prickled, and his back, exposed to the open carriage door, felt vulnerable.
Cupping his hands around Maryann’s face, he slowly pulled away.
“It’s only Rob,” she murmured before he could turn around. “He won’t tell.”
“In that case—” A gleam lit his eyes. “Shall we do it again?”
A mischievous look crossed her face, but she shook her head and turned to the groom.
“What happened to you and Rush?” she asked, hoping the breathlessness inflicted by Stephen’s kiss was not too obvious. “I was worried when neither one of you fired your weapon.”
“Aye,” Rob muttered, looking from her to Farrell. “Mighty worried ye was.”
She tried to look severe. “You’re being impertinent. Tell me! Why didn’t you fire a shot over their heads when they threw stones?”
“ ’Cause I had me hands full with the horses. An’ Rush, the ol’ fool, stood up to fire the fowlin’ piece an’ got knocked over. Dropped the gun right unner the horses’ hooves. It’s a wonder it didn’t go off.”
“We had best get going,” Stephen broke in. “There’s no telling how soon the crowd will be back once they realize none of the Guards are anywhere near.”
“Aye, sir! We’ll be off afore the cat can lick her ear.” A wide grin split Rob’s face. Saluting military fashion, he shut the door.
Settling herself on the forward seat, Maryann shot a covert look at Stephen, who had taken the seat opposite her. He had kissed her again—and that after discovering her in just the sort of danger he had warned about when she ventured into Seven Dials the first time.
She did not think he had changed his mind about keeping her out of the investigation. And yet, so far, he had said nothing.
But he had kissed her.
“Do you know, then, that I am going to see Hannah Moss?” she asked once they were under way.
Stephen took due note of the demurely folded hands, the lowered lashes and, very much at odds with this picture of meekness, the tilt of her chin and the firm set of the mouth that had, moments ago, been soft and pliable under his.
His gaze traveled to her disheveled curls, the widebrimmed hat clinging raffishly to the back of her head just behind one ear. She looked like an urchin. An adorable, exasperating pixie.
“Meg told me. Also that I had missed you by a scant five minutes,” he said. “I knew you’d have trouble getting through to Holborn. There’s a bakery there, you see.”
“So you left your curricle at the Fighting Cock and went after me on foot?” Resolutely, she put the kiss from her mind. A note of defiance crept into her voice. “Well, don’t think you can make me change my mind about going to see Hannah.”
“No.” Stephen looked at her pensively. “I don’t think I can.”
Her eyes widened. “You are not ordering me home?”
“Would you stay at home?” he countered. “I think not. And since I planned to see the Moss family sometime today, I may as well go now and keep an eye on you at the same time.”
The scheme itself suited her very well. But his reason for giving her the pleasure of his company was enough to cast her into the dismals—or to raise her hackles. It could not be said of Stephen Farrell, she thought resentfully, that he wore his heart on his sleeve.
To complete her confusion, he reached over and untied the ribbons of her hat. It was an intimate gesture, and quite disturbing.
Adjusting the frivolous piece of head covering to a more suitable angle, he said, “Most women would have heeded my warning not to return to the Dials. You were also warned by Fletcher and Meg.”
“Don’t forget Rob,” she cut in. Taking the ribbons from him, she deftly tied the bow. “He was most concerned about what you’d have to say to the exploit.”
Stephen was not diverted. “But you’re not like most women, are you, Maryann? What drives you to fly against common sense, against the conventions? You cannot convince me that it is considered suitable for a young lady to visit the back slums.”
“Don’t you see, Stephen?” She was no longer defiant or resentful but looked at him pleadingly, seeking his understanding. “I got myself into this—this imbroglio. If I cannot extricate myself under my own power, I am not fit to live the life of independence I dream of living.”
“A life of independence?” he repeated, startled. “Who ever heard of it? You could never live alone without incurring censure. You’d have to surround yourself with simpering companions and starchy chaperons.”
“But Stephen—”
“You wouldn’t like it at all,” he assured her. “You had much better marry some young fellow you can wind around your little finger.”
She had been amused by his depiction of her independent life, but the last statement snuffed all desire to smile.
“I don’t want to be married to some spineless gaby,” she said crossly. “I’d much rather live with a simpering female companion.”
“Nonsense.”
For a while, only the rattle of carriage wheels and the clatter of horses’ hooves broke the silence while Maryann looked pointedly out the window and Stephen contemplated a loose thread on the index finger of one of his gloves.
An unraveling thread was a minor, unimportant matter, but it was something concrete on which to focus a mind that had the regrettable tendency to dwell on a kiss and the foolish hopes it had raised in his breast.
As though drawn by a lodestone, his gaze shifted to Maryann. A life of independence—what utter rot! She might believe she could extricate herself from the mess she’d landed in, but he knew better.
Or did he? Maryann was stubborn. Indeed, she was mulish. She was naive, but she was far from being a feather-brained widgeon. She must recognize the danger of the situation, must know he could not allow her to run the risk of getting hurt. And yet she persisted in involving herself….
Maryann turned from the window. She already regretted her childish outburst and was astonished and not a little relieved to find him studying her in puzzlement when she had expected anger.
“I did not mean I wanted to live alone,” she said.
And suddenly it was not at all difficult to explain to him about her father’s tyranny, about her desire to get away from Rivington and her dream of designing a botanical garden.
“Gardens to be visited and enjoyed by Londoners who day after day live in gray houses, gray streets,” she said, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm. “Don’t you think that gardens, somewhere near Seven Dials for instance, might help just a little?”
“They would,” he said, his gaze tender. “On Boxing Day, my mother’s baskets for the villagers always included seeds, and not just for onions, carrots, and turnips. Flower seeds as well. ‘Flowers are a luxury most of them cannot afford,’ she used to say. ‘But they’re a luxury all of us need.’ ”
Her face fell. “A botanical garden is a luxury I must postpone.”
“Because you won’t have the money Tammadge was willing to settle on you? Maryann, I apologize for accusing you—”
She interrupted him. “Of being a mercenary harpy?”
He took her hand, raising it to his lips. “I apologize most humbly.”
She smiled, and he once more caught the pixie look that never ceased to touch his heart.
“But you were quite correct, Stephen. I was mercenary. I wonder, though, how you found out. You said you didn’t question our staff.”
“I did not.” He inserted a finger behind the collar of his shirt and tugged. “But my man Tolly did.”
She looked hurt, but said, “It doesn’t matter. And I shan’t ask you to divulge which one of our servants is a gossip.”
“I had no call to throw the marriage settlement at your head, even though I did not know then to what good purpose the money was to go.”
Maryann blushed. “Dash it, Stephen! I’m no saint. I had selfish motives for everything I did. You see, I did not want even my husband to hold me in his power. If I had my own money, I believed, I’d be totally independent.”
“You did make a mull of it, didn’t you?” He grimaced wryly. “Tammadge is not the man to give his wife free rein.”
“I know.” She hesitated. Sending him a sidelong look, she added, “I met him in the park after you left me.”
“The devil you say! What did he want?”
“I don’t really know.” She frowned. “He said he wanted to see me before I set out for Sloane Street, and then we talked about so many things, I never did get around to asking why.”
From the tail of his eye, Stephen saw they were passing the chapel and the west front of the boys school located in the Charterhouse. There was little time left before they’d reach Hannah Moss. Time he’d rather spend discussing Maryann’s gardens and life of “independence” than asking about Tammadge.
The devil fly away with Tammadge!
“What did he have to say?” he inquired with more reluctance than he cared to admit.
Dutifully, she reported that the viscount would be at the Merriwether soiree that night and that he had engagements, the particulars of which he had not disclosed, on Wednesday and Thursday. She paused, giving Stephen every opportunity to inform her of the role Meg was to play on Thursday night.
He did not, and she told herself not to be a ninny. She had not really expected it and had, therefore, no reason to feel disappointed. And if she happened to plan on being in Grosvenor Square that night, he would have no cause to fly up into the boughs and rake her over the coals.
After some thought, she told him about the gambling salon in the library of Rivington House and the cheating her father was involved in.
Stephen’s face tightened and she fell silent, believing it was disgust at her father’s disgraceful activities that gave his features the hard, chiseled look.
“Tammadge told you about your father to show you’re in his power,” Stephen said harshly. “And he a cheat himself! That’s why I approached Sir Nathaniel originally. Tammadge is the man who ruined my brother.”